More Things That Never Happened to Sherlock Holmes
by Pompey
Summary: On-going series of AU drabbles and drabblets, some depressing and some funny. Updated as ideas strike me. Suggestions welcomed. Feel free to steal any AU that spawns a plot-bunny. Ch 94 - because there's really only one veteran Holmes cares about
1. The Return

He was startled when Mrs. Watson answered the door. He had expected her to succumb to consumption during his hiatus, not make a full recovery. Certainly he had not expected the blonde toddler who peered at him from behind her mother's skirts.

Still in the guise of the old bookseller, he mumbled an apology and took his leave. He would send the most dramatic news in a telegram and appear in his own persona in a few hours, after the initial shock had worn off.

Holmes left Watson's home shaken. Gazing into the child's face – seeing the combination of her father's eyes with her mother's chin – he had had realized the partnership would never be the same.


	2. Fate Averted I

He was a good son, obeying his father's wishes. Chemical research was a respectable, practical, and fairly lucrative career.

Yet there were times when he felt he had missed his calling. On those days he couldn't bear to even look at a newspaper for fear the urge to find patterns, draw conclusions, would overtake him.

Somehow, he always pulled through in silence. What were the opinions of a chemical researcher in matters of crime? But Sherlock Holmes never ceased shaking his head over certain accounts of police activity, even after his own experiments brought him fame in his own field.


	3. Fate Averted II

The sniper's aim was true, a direct and fatal shot to the throat. Another infidel brought down for the glory of Allah. His only regret was that the soil of his homeland must be tainted by the blood of the enemy. Ah well.

Murray fumbled for the pulse he knew he would not find. Respectfully he draped his handkerchief over the dead surgeon's face and terrible wound. The torrent of blood had not yet even begun to clot. Having done all he could, Murray retreated with the other Berkshires, water he could not afford to lose pooling in his eyes.


	4. Fate Averted III

Sherlock Holmes kept his own counsel. He always had. It was a lesson taught to him well in childhood and one he continued to see the merit of nearly every day.

The only person a man could rely on was himself.

He would find a way to rent the Baker Street rooms himself or he would stay on Montague Street. It was that simple. He would rely on himself to find a way.

That was why, when Stamford asked what he was up to these days, he answered breezily and said nothing about his lodgings.

Sherlock Holmes relied on himself.


	5. Fate Averted IV

It was for the best, they both decided. Holmes's habits were simply too trying, his lifestyle too unpredictable. Not that Watson was without his faults. A hair-trigger temper and iron stubbornness did not make him an ideal flatmate either.

However, it was with no rancor, but a little genuine regret, that they parted ways. Holmes returned to Montague Street to eke out a living as a private detective. Watson drifted to Scotland, relying on relatives until he could purchase a practice. A young dentist and his wife moved into 221B Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson found them satisfactory, if anti-climactic, tenants.


	6. Needle

The needle flashed in the lamplight, drawing attention to itself that its wielder did not deliberately seek. But then, he did not inject in solitude either.

Cocaine to stimulate, morphine to calm. They chased each other in a vicious circle. Morphine to smother cocaine, cocaine to overpower morphine. Cocaine and morphine, morphine and cocaine. They were making daily appearances now where before it was only a few times a week and before that, a few times a month.

Holmes watched Watson put away the supplies with a growing concern. He could deny it no longer – the doctor was an addict.


	7. Felony

Holmes was in danger of completely wearing off the nap of the carpet with his nervous pacing. Watson watched him, himself pale and anxious.

"Heaven knows it will not be the first felony I have compounded. _That_ does not trouble my conscience," Holmes muttered, half to himself. "But how am I to put off Lestrade without incriminating another? What can I possibly tell the widow? "

His friend remained silent, his gaze pleading.

Suddenly Holmes whirled around, seized Watson's shoulders, and stared into his eyes. "For the love of God, Watson!" he cried desperately. "Why? Why did you kill him?"


	8. Fate Averted V

Fate Averted V

A Bachelor of Medicine was enough to practice medicine legally. Watson bought an Edinburgh practice, which slowly flourished. A few years later he married and a decade after that he and his wife took a holiday in London to attend a medical seminar.

"Is that Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" his wife asked at the Paddington train station.

"Who?"

"The famous detective!" she exclaimed impatiently.

Watson looked the man over. Judging from haggard appearance – and rumors of his drug use – he was certainly working himself to death. Watson shook his head but as they returned north, he forgot all about Sherlock Holmes.


	9. THE Woman

Despite Sherlock Holmes's low opinions of the intelligence of women, there was a single member of the sex who commanded his respect as an equal.

Yet her mind was of no value to society while housed in a female body, and an unattractive one at that. Too tall, too heavy, too uncaring for conventions, she was an old maid barely tolerated in her occupation – a bookkeeping clerk with a formidable command of numbers.

She asked for no pity, especially from a man seven years her junior. Still, it pained Holmes that his older sister Murella had not been born male.


	10. Topsy Turvy

To the unobservant, the sitting room looked only a trifle more disorderly than usual. Papers were out of place, files and indexes lay opened and rifled-through. Many books had been rudely pulled from shelves and not returned. Holmes surveyed it before plunging into the mess, digging frantically. Watson joined him, equally concerned.

At long last they surfaced, empty-handed and stunned. The Peterson file – and all its information about the politician of that name and his counterfeiting schemes – was simply nowhere to be found.

Holmes dragged a hand through his hair. "There's no denying it," he said hollowly. "We've been burglarized."

* * *

_". . . the writers of agonized letters, who beg that the honour of their families or the reputation of famous forebears may not be touched, have nothing to fear . . . I deprecate, however, in the strongest way the attempts which have been made lately to get at and to destroy these papers. The source of these outrages is known, and if they are repeated I have Mr. Holmes's authority for saying that the whole story concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant will be given to the public. There is at least one reader who will understand." --_ The Veiled Lodger 


	11. A BloodLetting I

_Special thanks to __KaizokuShojo for suggesting the plot bunny for both parts of "A Blood-letting" (so if you take violent exception to this particular AU world, you know who to aim your rotten produce at.) _; )

* * *

Beneath the floor of Nathan Garrideb's room lay the body of a criminal. There were six bullet wounds, five in nerve-laden areas. The sixth was in the lower abdomen, making for a slow, painful death from sepsis and eventual exsanguination. There was blood in the throat and mouth, indicating he had called for help before dying. The man, the room, and printing press and papers had been sprinkled liberally with lime. 

The new owners never did find the room. Sherlock Holmes had sealed and hidden it well. It was the only tribute he could offer to the memory of Watson.


	12. A Bloodletting II

_Special thanks to __KaizokuShojo for suggesting the plot bunny for both parts of "A Blood-letting" (so if you take violent exception to this particular AU world, you know who to aim your rotten produce at.) _; )

* * *

Sherlock Holmes's face was as cold and hard as the handcuffs on his wrists. The police milled around, their voices muted in the grim atmosphere.

The body of John Watson, M.D., had been carefully laid out, his fatal wound futilely cleaned and tended. On the other side of the room, crumpled carelessly, were the bloodied remains of "Killer" Evans. 

They covered Watson's body with a clean white sheet and carefully removed it. Holmes watched silently with haunted eyes. When they approached Evans, he tensed. "Keep that trash away from Watson," Holmes commanded.

Hopkins noted the underlying pain and nodded, understanding.


	13. The Truth

_Special thanks to Chewing Gum, for inspiring this drabble with a review._

* * *

No matter what Watson's stories said, Lestrade was plenty intelligent enough to following Holmes's explanations and deductions. The problem was Lestrade simply couldn't pay attention to anything he said. For the sake of his sanity, Lestrade had to tune Holmes out after the first five minutes.

Dear God, that man's voice! naught but nasally screeching and growls. How the doctor put up with it Lestrade never understood. Though, perhaps, Watson employed similar methods. What could be simpler and more effective than letting one's eyes glaze over and muttering, "I can make nothing of it" and "wonderful, Holmes!" at appropriate intervals?


	14. Amusing

"Analysis of the bullets will undoubtedly be the evidence we need. Even the police can be relied upon to see the obvious." Holmes leaned back, looking utterly satisfied. "The murder charge will not stick."

Watson's look clearly said he was unimpressed. "And what of the other charge?"

"Trespassing -- what of that?" Holmes dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "It will not be worth mentioning in the _Times_."

Watson continued to look morose. Holmes really did have the most incongruous sense of humor. For his part, Watson did _not_ find it amusing to be sharing a jail cell.


	15. Stories

"Holmes is a decent sort, " Lestrade confided. "Of course, he's still an amateur but he'll go far. Even helped me out once or twice on a case. Pity he's not cut out for the force."

"I thought you said he's clever."

"Oh, he is, deucedly clever. But he's confoundedly arrogant. You know, he had the nerve to tell me – to my face, mind! – I'd completely bungled my last case. I tell you, Dr. Watson, there's no respect for the law anymore."

"Leave it to me."

"_The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade_?" Dr. Doyle said. "Well, it might be of interest."


	16. Overkill?

Watson pulled the thermometer from his mouth and read it. "100.5," he related dully.

"That's not too bad," Holmes commented, torn between compassion and exasperation. Compassion, because Watson _did_ look wretched. Exasperation, because in the past three months Watson had been attacked, concussed, shot at, nearly drowned, and contracted at least four major illnesses. Really, the man had become a magnet for misery.

"No," Watson agreed, understanding Holmes's feelings completely. "With any luck, it won't get much worse."

"What ailment is it this time?"

Watson rubbed his fevered, aching brow and sighed. "From the symptoms, I'd say it's Sidekick Syndrome."

_Just some good-natured ribbing to my fellow Watson-torturers. Hey, it's not our fault he's so darn torturable! Besides, other fandom "sidekicks" get to be tortured so why not Watson? We don't want the poor man feeling left out, after all. ;)_


	17. Not Again!

**Oops**

With a smile, Sweeney Todd wiped his straight-razor clean. He continued tidying up after himself – he never had been able to abide mess, even as a child – and when he was quite sure there was no more blood to be spilt, he closed his hand around the lever.

Suddenly two gentlemen, one tall and angular and the other shorter and more sturdily built, burst through the door with revolvers drawn. Todd froze, astonished.

"My God!" the shorter one exclaimed, horrified. "Holmes, do you realize –"

"Yes, Watson," the taller one said grimly, "I fear we have stumbled into a cross-over."


	18. Rumor

_This drabble cheerfully mocks Holmes/Watson slash; that is to say, this drabble contains male/male relationship insinuations. Readers who may be offended by this subject matter may wish to refrain from reading. (Blame Chewing Gum – she wanted to know what plot bunny her 221B challenge spawned.)_

* * *

"Mycroft! I'm afraid your brother is out at the moment –"

"That is quite all right, doctor, for you are the one I mean to speak with."

"I? Whatever for?"

In response, Mycroft slapped a bundle of papers on the table. Watson flipped through them, grimacing when he identified them. "I can assure you there is absolutely no truth to the rumor. Sherlock Holmes and I have never been, nor will we ever be, lovers. Frankly, I find the idea abhorrent."

"As do I." Mycroft kissed Watson rather possessively. "I'm glad that matter is settled. Tonight, then, at my place?"


	19. After Reichenbach

_Ok, this is not a "real" drabble. I've given in to the "221B" challenge!_

* * *

The papers proclaimed Sherlock Holmes was dead and the city of London filled with the black arm bands of thousands of mourners. Watson's own bit of ribbon weighed on him, pulling him down until he could barely wallow through the motions of existence. Every condolence uttered to him, every stark black headline screaming at him from the stands, even the sight of certain streets twisted his heart immeasurably.

Holmes had died doing that which he lived for: fighting for right and justice. It was a cold, comfortless comfort that Watson clung to desperately during the blackest hours of his soul. The villain was dead, his evil deeds shattered and scattered to the winds. There was nothing left of his network; it was gone.

But then, so was Holmes.

How he made it through Holmes's funeral Watson would never know. Perhaps he was truly that stoic. Or perhaps trudging through the motions of what was expected had become routine for him by then. And funerals were all but routine for him now, he had attended so many. They were all too horribly similar; they all ended with the final gaze upon the cold, still face of a loved one.

This funeral was no exception.

This time, Holmes would not appear in his consulting room after three years, disguised as an old bookseller.


	20. Furry

_The "221B" challenge is far too contagious. Other than that, I have no excuse for the following bit of silliness._

"What the devil?"

"Good heavens!"

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson looked each other up and down, scrutinizing this thoroughly unexpected development. Holmes was now a purebred foxhound and Watson was a black, well-groomed terrier.

"We are dogs," Holmes said in a tone implying he was clinging to the last threads of patience.

"So it would appear," Watson mused, staring at what, up until thirty seconds ago, had been his hands.

"I must say, Watson, the author is getting deplorably desperate for ideas. This latest perversion of our world is a new depth, even for her! How can you be so calm about this?"

Watson shrugged. "I confess I am none too pleased by this development but it could have been far worse. We are still friends and still residing in Baker Street. You are not dead. Nor am I."

After a long pause Holmes reluctantly muttered, "This is true."

"We are still wearing clothing and are able to converse intelligently in English."

"Which is ridiculous!" Holmes fumed. "Logically the mouths of canines --"

"Holmes, the rules of logic obviously cannot apply to this matter. I suggest we simply wait until this fit of suspended reality has passed. Besides," Watson continued, somewhat mischievously, "The author hasn't forsaken her goal. This is truly something that has never happened to Sherlock Holmes before."


	21. Belle Dame Sans Merci

_AU of Granada's "3 Gables" – those familiar with the ep will recognize more than those familiar with just the story._

He had taken beatings during Holmes's investigations before. It was never pleasant but at least it was for the sake of bringing about justice. This . . . this was for a matter alien to Holmes.

Love.

He had believed himself in love, or at least something akin to it. He thought she had loved him in return. Now he knew. She didn't love him because she was incapable of love – not as Holmes, who kept his emotions firmly in check – but because she had no heart. She had watched her hired men drive the toes of their rough boots into him, not even moving a finger to acknowledge his knowledge of her presence.

She feared he would expose her for the heartless wretch she was – he, who had helped keep the secrets of kings! The "very soul of discretion!" How little did she know him.

Ah, but he would write that account now! His identity he would protect but hers . . . hers should be plain to all of society. He was not a vengeful man but for her he would make an exception.

Afterwards he dragged himself back to Baker Street, dreading Holmes's reaction, and then realized he might have bigger problems to worry about, if the internal pain was any indicator.

His face bled; his stomach burned.


	22. Going Out for Mexican

I was surprised to see Holmes back from his trip to Mexico a week early. If his brief messages to me had been any indication, the investigation had been brought to a successful conclusion. However, looking at Holmes's face, I had to wonder if the case had taken an unexpected turn for the worst at the end.

"No," he said in response to my concern. "The case ended well, as I expected. I simply could not tolerate the atmosphere any longer."

"The heat?"

"The society," snarled Holmes, grabbing his pipe and tobacco and flinging himself into his chair. I offered him a light and waiting until his mood had improved slightly to question him further.

"I have no quarrel with the Mexican nation as a whole," he admitted at last. "I found the Latin Americans stimulating company in most respects. However, the president's wife took a personal interest in my health that I found most wearying. That I was forced to endure her opinions on the shortcomings of English cuisine and lifestyle in addition to the tedium of societal engagements was more than I could tolerate. Even upon my departure she pressed upon me these."

I looked into the tin he passed me and beheld what appeared to be some sort of biscuit. "What are they?"

"The lady's specialty – homemade bizcochitos."

_This chapter is dedicated to KCS . . . she knows why. _; )


	23. Oh, Rats!

_This chapter is also dedicated to KCS and the late T.S. Eliot; she knows why. ;) _

Holmes lay curled up in his chair, the blackness of his coat matching his mood as he glowered at his present company: his brother and his arch-nemesis.

Mycroft eventually looked up from his white spats and acknowledged his brother's crankiness. "I have no explanation for this."

"Ha!"

"Sherlock, please. You needn't vent your spleen on us just because your landlady was affected as we were and expressed her displeasure to you in a manner most vehement. Now, be logical about this."

"This entire situation is illogical!" Holmes began pacing furiously in front of the fire, ears pressed back tightly against his skull.

"But not entirely unexpected, given past events," Moriarty observed dryly, his own gingery coat dusty from neglect. "And at any rate, you know you will not be bothered by mice or cockroaches."

Holmes was saved from answering by Watson's entry. "Holmes, when did we acquire a tabby -- I say!" The doctor observed one very lithe black cat pacing before the fire; one very large, round black cat with white paws; and one seedy, ginger cat with an oscillating head. "So you've all been turned into cats this time?"

"It happened a few minutes after you left. Consider it a lucky break."

"As I cannot but feel I would make an awkward cat, it is a _very _lucky break."

_If anyone is curious as to the origins of this, I will direct you to T.S.Eliot's "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats", especially "Bustopher Jones," "The Old Gumbie Cat," "Macavity the Mystery Cat," and "Magical Mr. Mistoffelees." Sadly, there was no cat that reminded me of Watson, except perhaps "Skimbleshanks" but that's a stretch._


	24. Oh, Rats! II

_Because KCS wanted a sequel, and Holmes as a cat was too cute NOT to make a mini-series . . . _

"How much longer is this going to last?" Mycroft grumbled from the bear skin rug. "I have pressing work in Whitechapel."

"Have Watson send a physician's note; he's still able to write," Sherlock suggested, delicately batting tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with his paws.

Watson glared mildly, having already played nurse-maid to four cats for almost two hours. Even Mrs. Hudson had to concede defeat when it came to opening the icebox for milk. Nevertheless, Watson found Holmes's suggestion appealing since it would get him out of the flat for awhile. One or two cats in open areas were no hardship; four cats in close quarters was having a particularly adverse effect on his eyes and nose.

Holmes was engrossed in carefully positioning a match between his teeth and its strike-box between his paws, ignoring his brother's muttered warning of, "you're going to end up singeing your whiskers, you know," when Watson slipped on his coat and hat.

"We shall try to endeavor to keep our shedding to a minimum while you are gone," Holmes slurred. "I am shorry I didn't notice your allershies before."

"Didn't you?" drawled Moriarty, rubbing against Watson's chair.

Watson fixed him with a glare before addressing Holmes. "I'll be fine, so long as you stay in the sitting room and out of my bedroom."


	25. Oh, Rats! III

Watson had opened the door to the sitting room so the cats were free to roam into the hall and kitchen. This kindness didn't impress Moriarty, who couldn't rejoin his crime network in his new body and was put out by it. Not that he blamed Watson personally, but as the only one still human, Watson _had_ to suffer some misery also. Moriarty's revenge was to try to shed on Watson's chair and desk as much as possible until Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft let him know in no uncertain terms that there would be no more such activities.

The ginger cat sulked in a far corner but behaved himself the rest of the evening, giving Watson a wide berth. However, once darkness descended and Watson retired for the night, Moriarty found a pressing need to yowl incessantly. The combined efforts of three determined cats were no match for an equally determined cat's lung-power.

Finally, after almost an hour, Watson stomped down from his room in his dressing-gown, murder in his eye. He seized Moriarty by the nape of the neck. Before the professor could try to sink his fangs or claws into Watson's flesh, the doctor gave him a spoke in a low, deadly earnest voice.

"Keep that up and you'll be on the receiving end of a rugby bomb-kick."


	26. Oh, Rats! IV

3 a.m. Moriarty had begun stalking the shadows. The brothers Holmes were napping. Only Mrs. Hudson noticed when the shadow-stalking changed dynamics.

As a human she both hated and loathed rodents. As a cat, she was intrigued. As a soft-hearted female, she was mercy incarnate.

Moriarty blinked in surprise at the violent cuffing having. Mrs. Hudson looked down at the mouse solicitously. "Are you all right, sir?" Normally one does not address a mouse as "sir" but then, normal mice do not wear Ivernesses or deerstalkers.

"Quite all right, thank you, ma'am," came the breathless but steady reply. "I trust you did not just save my life in order to end it yourself?"

"Heavens, no!" The tabby looked shocked by the very idea. By this time Sherlock and Mycroft were drawn to the spectacle while Moriarty took a vantage point on the mantle.

"I do beg your pardon for intruding," the mouse continued, "but I was unaware that Mr. Holmes had recently taken in any cats."

"That is because Mr. Holmes IS the cat," Moriarty sneered. "As is his housekeeper, his brother, and . . . myself."

"Ah, 'furries' fanfic!" The mouse nodded knowingly. "It should wear off by morning. If you will excuse me . . ." The mouse darted away under the floorboards.

"A moment!" Sherlock called. "Who are you?"

"Basil."


	27. Oh, Rats! V

Watson woke in the early light of dawn and made his way into the sitting room to see how the cats had fared. To his surprise and relief, Holmes was mostly de-transformed. Soft black fur remained on the backs of his hands and his eyes were still green with vertical pupils but other than that he was quite human again.

Mrs. Hudson was asleep on the settee, also fully human if tabby-striped. Mycroft was snoring softly on the couch, halfway to his normal human size and less furry than before. Moriarty, sleeping soundly on Holmes's desk , was still very much a cat.

"I'm glad to see it's finally wearing off," Watson said in the ghost of whisper so as not to disturb the others.

"No more glad than I," Holmes retorted. "It seems the timetable we were given was correct."

"Given by whom?" Watson asked. He had begun backing up to the door to his bedroom, his eyes already starting to burn and his nose beginning to twitch. The sitting room would be intolerable for him for some time, he knew.

"A mouse we met, by the name of Basil. Quite a polite little fellow."

"A talking mouse? Moreover, one willing to talk to cats?"

Holmes shrugged. "My dear fellow, despite recent events, the rules and laws of furry-fics remain outside my bailiwick."

Bailiwick – ha, got it in there! ;) And hang on, one more chapter of this to go!


	28. Oh, Rats! VI

It wasn't long after that Moriarty, still asleep, finally began to transform.

"What should we do with him?" Watson whispered. "We can't just let him leave."

"We can't have him arrested, even after he turns back," Holmes replied. "I don't have enough evidence yet. However, I think we may exact a little revenge without reprehensibility."

"What sort of revenge?"

"I see the early-morning rubbish collector and his cart have arrived," Holmes commented, looking out the window. "We are not terribly high up and the man has already accumulated a good portion of rubbish that would offer some cushioning."

At Watson's incredulous look, Holmes added temptingly, "Cats are said to land on their feet, after all."

Watson snickered quietly while he stood in the best position for viewing. Holmes grabbed the sleeping ginger cat by the scruff of the neck before it grew any larger. Moriarty awoke with a start but before he could retaliate the detective cheerfully tossed him out the window.

Moriarty flew downward, legs splayed, yowling all the way, into the rubbish cart. The rubbish collector turned in shock as a bedraggled, thin man pulled himself out of the cart. "Throw me out the window, Holmes?" he muttered. "So help me, I'll throw him off a cliff!"

The rubbish collector decided he really had to lay off the brandy.


	29. Soldiering

When his father died in a tragic accident before his even finished his university courses, John Watson realized he had to dramatically readjust his plans for the future. Medicine was no longer an option. The army it was, then, with its promise of adventure and immediate employment.

Employment, certainly. Adventures, well . . .

He and a corporal were swimming when the corporal was attacked by a crocodile. Watson got him to shore but the leg was horribly mangled and the fellow was in agony.

"I don't know what to do!" Watson cried frantically. "I'm a soldier, not a doctor!"

_Back to the original drabble form, and a sideways answer to CG's "Star Trek" challenge._


	30. Doctoring

There was a slow, rattling inhalation of breath that was exhaled even more slowly. Then the chest stilled, rising no more. The poor fellow's body was too weakened, too drained of its strength to fight any longer.

Dr. Ives sighed. Another typhoid victim. His lips were tight and grim but his touch was gentle as he drew the white sheet over the still face, still residually warm from fever. This was the part of being a physician he hated the most. He also hated the part that had to come next: sending a telegram of Watson's passing to his brother.

_Shameless plug: KCS and I are collaborating on a new story with Ives. First chapter goes up next week. Yes, bcb, this is the bunny you offered to us!_


	31. Vacation?

"The villain is dead," Holmes pointed out.

"He certainly is," Watson agreed dryly.

"No one else was injured."

"Thanks goodness."

"We have undoubtedly saved scores of lives."

"Oh, undoubtedly."

"Then what is the problem, Watson?" Holmes asked, sounding put out at his friend's lack of enthusiasm. "The case has been brought to a successful conclusion."

Watson sighed and surveyed the ship's survivors coming ashore while avoiding the flotsam that was once the Dutch ship _Friesland. _"Yes, Holmes, but couldn't you have found a way to solve the case without marooning us all on this God-forsaken island?"

* * *

_For KaizokuShojo, who wanted to know what would happen if the boys were shipwrecked. This story is completely separate from the other (and wonderful) Friesland story, "Vows Made In Storms" by KCS and PGF._


	32. Brotherly Advice

"Your brother hasn't responded," Holmes observed gently.

I sighed. "I cannot force him to correspond with me," I said at last with a shrug, "though I confess I'd hoped he might reconsider." I'd truly turned teetotaler since last we spoke years ago, but I understood his incredulousness. The things I'd said back then . . .

Holmes nodded. "My brother Sherlock was furious when I didn't immediately support his detecting ambitions. Give John some time; he will trust you again. Meanwhile, we may commiserate as put-upon elder brothers. Or seek revenge by introducing our infuriating siblings and watching chaos ensue."


	33. Flights of Fancy

"What a lovely thing a rose is!" Holmes exclaimed suddenly and with quite uncalled-for enthusiasm. "There is nothing in which deduction is so necessary as in religion." He continued rambling on for a few more minutes about Providence and goodness and nature, before finally concluding, "it is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."

"Do you see any prospect of solving this mystery, Mr. Holmes?" Miss Harrison asked coldly, as well she might.

"The mystery?" Holmes repeated blankly.

I sighed. "You'll have to excuse him; he's taken Nyquil."


	34. This Agency

John had his medical practice and Sherlock Holmes's cases and his writing to occupy his time. Mary was used to earning her own way, and the boredom of housekeeping was driving her mad. Her solution was not ladylike but what of that? It was exciting and brought in a few coins.

Besides, hadn't Mr. Holmes himself had complimented her on her instinct for relevant details? And there was information a pretty young woman could get that even a great detective would be hard-pressed to gather.

John needn't think he was the only Watson to assist Mr. Holmes with his cases.


	35. Not a 4 Star Establishment

I stared at the crushed corpse on the blanket, horror and loathing sweeping over my very being. Just contemplating the sight made my skin break out in gooseflesh – a ridiculous reaction for a man of worldly experience but I couldn't shake it.

I glanced at my companion, willing him to deny what was in front of us. "Holmes, is . . . is that really . . . ?"

"Yes, Watson, I fear so," he replied darkly. He rubbed his fingers – the ones that had come into contact with it -- absently yet vehemently on his pocket handkerchief.

"Should we alert the innkeeper?"

"To what purpose? The man is probably quite aware of the situation already."

"And he has done nothing about it?" I exclaimed in outrage.

Holmes shrugged. "It would not surprise me in the slightest. The innkeeper is not the most scrupulous of proprietors."

I sighed. "Nevertheless, I feel he should be told."

"You're only wasting your time, I assure you. No," Holmes concluded, sitting on a hard chair and lighting his pipe, "we shall have to deal with it ourselves."

"And by deal with it, you mean we should ignore the thing."

"Well, yes. That, and avoid any and all cushioning in the room." At my incredulous look, he added, "unless you _want_ to spend the night hunting bedbugs."

* * *

_Based on a horrible scare I had two nights ago. Fortunately they were NOT bedbugs, only tiny beetle-things that came through the vent, but my reaction was similar to Watson's -- with a lot more girly hysteria thrown in._


	36. Worst Tenant in London

The stench of blood and chloroform hung thick in the air and the doctor, usually the patient and "normal" one, bellowed at her to get out. Mr. Holmes stood at his elbow, looking only faintly disturbed at what was happening.

Mrs. Hudson fled from the room obediently. She had seen many an upsetting thing in her years of renting rooms to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson but this impromptu surgery on the dining table was quite likely was the most upsetting. Really, the doctor was giving Mr. Holmes a run for his money on being the worst tenant in London.


	37. Drinking Games

_for bcb, because it was her bunny _

There was a groove along Watson's left thumb, and faint chalk dust between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. And now Holmes had the perfect reason to bring up a question that had been pestering him for some time.

"Watson, you said you play billiards with Thurston. Was that the case tonight?"

"Yes, why?"

"Well, it strikes me as odd that 'Thurston' is the maker of virtually every billiard table in England and yet you regularly play billiards with him. Now, either the man is so enraptured with the game he not only spends his career with it but also his spare time . . . or there is something you're not telling me."

Surprisingly, Watson blushed. "I used the phrase 'playing billiards with Thurston' out of habit the first time. Then I had to keep using it or you would have noticed the difference."

"It means something else entirely?"

"It is . . . slang. For standard billiards played on the table."

"It's possible to play billiards OFF the table?"

"One night, after some of us dipped too heavily into spirits, we tried playing it on the floor. The running joke now is to ask before each game if we'll be playing 'with or without Thurston.' "

"The FLOOR, Watson?"

Defensively Watson growled, "that was a most amusing game of billiards!"


	38. Not Furry

_I fear I'm overusing this genre but between KCS's challenge and The Fool's Hope comment about my using said genre . . . well, I couldn't resist. But my gosh, I owe that poor man a steak dinner! (has a sudden and very wrong thought) Nah, not even I would turn Holmes into a cow._

Lestrade made a strangled sound unique to people changing laughs to coughs. "Any idea what happened this time?" he finally asked. "I mean, he could speak English in her other furry-fics."

Watson sighed. "She already apologized about that. Apparently chickens aren't 'furry.'" He waved away a floating feather as if to emphasize that. "As such, there were . . . . difficulties. Holmes may still be cognizant, for all we know."

They looked towards the chicken they had finally caught and imprisoned in an up-ended basket. It clucked indignantly.

"What does that mean?" Watson wondered.

Lestrade shrugged. "I have no idea. I'm no chicken."


	39. The Return, II

_Warning: this drabble disturbed even me, but I was too happy to have my muse back not to chance it. Inspired by a line in KCS's drabble "Dinner" under "Snapshots." More appropriate for Halloween, I suppose, but meh._

* * *

With his back pressed against the wall, eyes dilated to near-total black and a cold sweat on his brow, Watson decided fainting was quite the appropriate response to the vision before him.

He had, in his wildest dreams, imagined that Holmes was alive, that his closest friend would somehow return. He had not, however, imagined this.

Resurrected from the grave . . .

But not as Lazarus, untouched and uncorrupted, or even as Mary Shelley's Frankenstein monster, piece-meal but still whole.

What made it the worst, Watson decided, was when those rotted, decaying lips parted and slurred out his name.


	40. All's Fair

Miss Morstan was a very attractive young woman, he had to admit. Clever and poised too. She was not conventionally beautiful but that was more than made up by the spirituality of her face and her strength of character that came through so clearly in that first interview. He wondered if she might accept his advances, once she ceased to be a client.

The danger was that she might see him as only a treasure-seeker, not realizing the real treasure to him was the woman herself.

Then there was little matter that Watson was clearly in love with her already.


	41. Hero Worship

"Never in my life have I encountered such rudeness!" the tall man huffed. "This job is not all drinking champagne out of slippers, as well he should know!"

His companion sighed into his mustache and leaned against the wall. "Well, you knew what he would be like the moment you agreed to this job. And he did like the details on the Baker Street set."

"At least the first season is over," Jeremy growled. "Changing the subject, how'd it go with you and Watson?"

David shrugged. "He's concerned about my replacement but I think he'll like Edward's work."


	42. Social Niceties

_For Shadows-light91 . . . who suggested this bunny. It took me awhile but I finally got it written!_

* * *

Holmes and Watson kept their faces schooled in carefully neutral expressions. The situation was precarious, with a lady's honor at stake. The barest hint that anything was amiss could be disatrous.

The lady herself, white-haired and amiable, continued to chatter on without any indication she noticed the situation. Fortunately Holmes was able to give her answers immediately that were satifactory if uttered nasally, and she departed in good spirits.

It was then that they rushed to throw open the windows and clear the room of the silent but noxious protest the lady's digestive tract had made.


	43. Get Lost, World

_Because KCS has strange dreams, and then she has to go and share one with me ;)_

Had I known the course of events that would stem from attending the conference held by Professor George Challenger's exploration team once they returned from Brazil, I may have simply refused to accompany Holmes to the afore-mentioned conference.

As it was, I attended that fateful exhibit and thus was party to all that followed. That is why I found myself – several weeks later – face to face with a young and all-too-curious _Tyrannosaurus Rex_ with both my rifle and service revolver some twenty feet away.

"Actually, Watson," Holmes corrected, observing the creature with professional interest, "I believe that is an _Allosaurus_."


	44. The Return, III

With a heavy sigh, Inspector Lestrade brought out his handcuffs. "The thing is, Mr. Holmes," he explained, " the doctor's stories were, erm, a bit incriminating. That didn't matter so much when you were presumed dead but now . . . "

"Can you be more specific as to the charges?" Holmes interrupted.

"Impersonating a clergyman on two occasions (1), enabling felons after the fact and withholding information from the police on at least three occasions (2), bribing an officer (3)," came the answer. "Will that suffice?"

Holmes acknowledged that it would. "And Watson?"

"Accomplice and accessory after the fact."

(1) SCANDAL and FINAL (2) BOSC, BLUE, NAVAL (3) STUDY


	45. A Mistake

Holmes was chagrinned, Hopkins accusatory, and Watson vicariously embarrassed. The oppressive silence was interrupted by Holmes clearing his throat.

"It is an erroneous assumption to think that any man is infallible," he said. "Fortunately, one may learn from one's mistakes. I must thank you, Hopkins, for bringing this case to my attention. There are unique features to this that I would not have missed for anything."

Hopkins rolled his eyes and went back to watching the giant moth-man winging his way on leathery wings into the sunset. "So much for never having seen a crime committed by a flying creature."


	46. The Return, IV

The affair at Reichenbach had indeed ended with Moriarty's death, but Watson had not left Holmes at the falls. Instead, he had been taken down by Moran's airgun. Holmes escaped with his life, and the body of his best friend.

Holmes couldn't contemplate a life without Watson. He refused to accept it; the concept was simply impossible. And so, in time, that tremendous will slowly bent certain patterns of the universe.

Holmes had his Watson back. Well . . . he had a companion with Watson's physical form. And even if this new version of his friend responded only to direct commands and replied with one of five stock phrases, it was enough to hold back the worst of the loneliness and despair that Watson's _true _death would have caused.

Those who had been closest to them were concerned, of course. Holmes excused his friend's odd behavaior as residual brain damage from Moran's bullet -- close enough to the truth to be accepted. Others, indoctrined by Doyle's unflattering portrayal of the doctor, didn't even notice.

Holmes found it a tolerable if not ideal situation, until Watson grew edgy and aggressive. Even then, Holmes was loath to accept there were consequences for changing Nature . . . until the day Watson killed him and consumed his brain.

* * *

_Sorry for making Watson a zombie! __I've just got 'em on the brain. _

_Mmm . . . braaaaaaaaains._


	47. Dieting by the Book

Sherlock Holmes Diet: Of the sparest. Shun all food in favor of the strongest tobacco at least fifty percent of the time. When you do finally eat, choose animal proteins – a side of cold beef, bacon, oysters, a brace of partridges – with cups of tea and the occasional bit of bread. Moderate alcohol is permitted as are green peas, when babbled of by your landlady.

Dr. Watson Diet: You are permitted proteins, carbohydrates, teas, and vegetables with moderate alcohol and tobacco because this diet focuses on physical exercise. Meals are only to be eaten on the run, and on a regular basis you will not permitted to finish your meal. Your constant activities – being dragged out of bed at all hours, chasing after consulting detectives and dangerous criminals – guarantee you will burn off any calorie you consume.

Irregulars Diet: Gutter scraps, hand-outs, unwanted garbage. Even if you're lucky enough to find these, you will be highly reluctant to actually eat them. Exercise includes trailing suspects and dodging bobbies. The occasional sneaky foray into Mrs. Hudson's cookie jar is a permissible supplement, provided you actually get past Mrs. Hudson.

Mycroft Holmes Diet: Eat anything and everything, walk as little as possible, perform as many activities as is humanly possible from your armchair. In other words, do worse than you were doing before!


	48. Hero Worship II

_For BCB, who may recognize certain elements here, but will hopefully accept this in the spirit of good-natured ribbing._

* * *

The young woman was almost literally bouncing on the balls of her feet she relinqued her precious copy of "The Complete Sherlock Holmes" to the two men sitting at the autograph table wielding pens. "I was wondering . . . . um, the autographs would be great and all but . . . could I kiss you instead?"

Immediately Watson held up his left hand, displaying the gold ring on the fourth finger. "Sorry, still married," he said with a regretful smile.

The girl then looked pointed at Holmes, who cleared this throat uncomfortably. "Ah . . . I think not," he stammered. "It would set a precedent, you see, as well as increase the potential for the spread of germs. I'm just recovering from a cold and I should not wish to share it."

She sighed but accepted the explanation -- and eventual autographs -- with good grace. As soon as she was gone, autographed book in hand, Holmes whipped around to his smirking friend.

"And what exactly was that, Watson? 'Still married' indeed. A widower is fair game to the fair sex and you know it."

"Exactly," Watson smiled. "I've been to these autograph sessions before, Holmes, and I knew to take precautions. It's called foresight."

Holmes grumbled, "It's called throwing me under the bus."


	49. Points for Trying

Holmes looked bemused and irritated as he surveyed the mound that the day's correspondence made. "Birthday cards and well-wishes," he explained curtly as my eyebrows raised. "Most of them come from the so-called 'fan girls' but a distressing number of them are from otherwise rational adults across the globe."

"But today is January the sixth," I answered, confused. "Why would they think today is your birthday?"

"Because of a theory put forth several decades ago that, because I have twice quoted _The Twelfth Night_ in your writings and risen later than was my wont in what you termed _The Valley of Fear_, my birthday must clearly be January 6."

"What on earth is the connection?"

"The twelfth night of the Christmas season, you recall, is January 6. As for the Birlstone mystery, some of your devoted followers have placed the beginning of the case on January 7. They assumed that I could have had no other reason for rising late than because I was suffering from some post-celebratory fatigue."

"In other words, because you were hung over," I clarified, smirking. "Though creative, that is rather poor evidence. You could enlighten them, you know."

Holmes shuddered. "They know enough about me and my ways already. Besides, why should I spoil the mystery for them?"

". . . Holmes? When _is_ your birthday?"


	50. A Prediction

_The picture are availabe for viewing at International Movie Database (imdb) dot com. Type in "Sherlock Holmes" in the search screen. I still have my doubts about the movie's quality but . . . Jude Law . . . and muscles . . . *sigh*. Eye candy is fun. _

* * *

"What is that torture-ess of an author making odd noises about now?" Holmes grumbled.

"I can hear you, you know," she responded from over her laptop's screen. "They've released pictures from that upcoming Sherlock Holmes movie."

"What of it?" demanded Holmes. "I thought you had declared that movie a travesty and refused to have anything to do with it."

I peered over her shoulder. "One picture is of 'you' half naked."

"WHAT!" Holmes stormed over to peer over both of us. "Now that is in poor taste, I must say. I look like a common ruffian."

"A _muscle-y_ common ruffian," the resident fanfictioner pointed out, grinning.

"My dear lady," Holmes began, "you disappoint me. To be taken in by mere appearances . . ."

"I was sighing over the other picture -- Jude Law playing Watson," she explained with a ridiculously dreamy expression. "Yowza."

Holmes pulled me aside. "Watson, the situation has become dire. This movie already has one established fanfictioner in it snare. Do you have any idea how many fan-girls are going to flock to their keyboards after its release?"

I gulped, then sighed in resignation. "I'll go put in an order for extra bandages."


	51. Tobacco

It always bemused Watson that despite all the tobacco that Sherlock Holmes consumed -- and _strong_ tobacco at that -- that he still retained an athlete's wind. It made no sense but then, Holmes often set his own rules. Why shouldn't he manage to avoid smoker's cough or emphysema?

But not even Sherlock Holmes could dodge everything. Not quite a decade after his retirement he began tiring and losing weight from his already-spare frame. Then came blood in his urine and eventually, after reluctantly undergoing several tests, came the diagnosis of kidney cancer.

* * *

_Yes, smoking actually does increase the risk of developing kidney cancer, especially in men. (Ah, the things you learn in the insurance business.) Fortunately once the smoker quits the risk drops but do you really think Holmes retired from tobacco when he retired from detecting? _


	52. Tobacco II

"Holmes!" I cried in near-panic. I saw no sign of him in the sitting room until a white hand rose over the back of the sofa and languidly twisted in the air.

"Holmes!" He was acting as he usually did when under the influence of morphine but I could not worry about that now. I dashed over. "Holmes, I've just heard the news. They've found a that a shipment of shag tobacco was contaminated with some sort of drug or some such thing. It's a mild hallucinogenic, I've heard, but the point is the tobacco is not safe to smoke. You must get rid of your new supply."

Holmes merely stared at his hands. He slowly brought them up to his face. "I have hands," he said in wonder.

I realized I was too late but perhaps all was not lost. "Holmes, do you understand me?"

He glanced over his flexing digits, gaze suddenly sharp and clear. "Of course. There was a contaminatant in my shag tobacco, which I have consumed."

"Yes," I sighed in relief. "I'm glad to see you are not much worse for wear."

He merely grapped my wrists and raised them to his eye level. "You have hands too."

Ooooooh boy.

* * *

_Inspired by a combination of a close friend's personal expierence, research into the Pure Food and Drug Act, and a dash of "Quantum Leap."_


	53. My Fair Jeremy

"How do you do?" Freddie Einsford-Hill said and a chorus of delighted feminine giggles rose up.

"Oh, honestly!" snapped Holmes, peering at the screen. "For a group of –" he choked – "_respectable_ authors, you are behaving like a pack of rabid, foaming fangirls."

"But it's Jeremy Brett!" came the indignant protest.

"To be sure," Holmes retorted. "Jeremy Brett in the role he always thought himself best at: the romantic lover. You know that's not him singing his own songs."

They ignored him, enraptured by the movie again.

Holmes gave up in exasperation. "Women are irrational, that's all there is that."

* * *

My Fair Lady_ viewing at my place -- everyone's welcome! I don't mind watching it two days in a row._


	54. Conspiracy

On one hand, the fanfictioners' inability to update or post stories was welcome. Really, there are only so many times a man can be beaten, concussed, and otherwise tortured. On the other, my sympathies went out to my fellow authors who could not share their art.

I went to tell Holmes but stopped in my tracks. He was seated at our laptop, typing furiously. He looked up, grinning manically. "The computer term 'trojan' is certainly an apt one, wouldn't you say? "

I groaned. "Holmes, there are better ways to lodge your complaints with fanfictioners."


	55. Dr Holmes, MD

I am not much older than Sherlock Holmes but I simply can't remember being _that_ irritating as a medical student.

I know I did not bring home human artifacts culled from who-knows-where. Nor did I get myself banned from the dissection room for a week for performing weird experiments upon cadavers, including beating them.

Furthermore, I would not be so rude as to look up my lodger's thesis and to question it more than the qualifications board.

Perhaps Stamford knows of some other poor fellow in need of a flatmate.

* * *

_Thanks, ScM15, for the plot bunny!_


	56. The Return V

Holmes had departed for London a minute after crumpling up the message whose delivery had been delayed by the wilds of Tibet. Even so, he missed the funeral by twenty-four hours.

The rain was fitting welcome. He did not mind it as he looked in despair at the black crepe on the door of the Kensington practice.

There was no point in announcing his continued existence to the widow. He would pay a visit to Watson's freshly covered grave and then he would once again disappear. This time, nothing could persuade him to return.


	57. Spleens

I jumped as a hand dropped heavily onto my shoulder. I spun around to meet Holmes's glare.

"Why are you researching ruptured spleens?"

"I'm at work. Part of my job is to read medical records. I'm expanding my knowledge to improve my work ethic."

"You're on break. And you're taking notes."

"Yes."

"And this sudden interest in spleens a day after the creation of a certain new LJ communtiy called 'Watson's Woes' is merely a coincidence?"

" . . . yes."

"Nor, I suppose, is there any connection between your research and a plot bunny concerning some missing scenes from your 'One of Their Own'?"

" . . . no?"

"Nor have you been considering asking KCS if you may write a missing scene from 'Broken and Buried' which involves Watson and a carriage accident?"

"Maybe?" Then quickly, "I was considering it but if I did both they would end up resembling each other too much so I changed my mind."

Holmes sighed. "My dear lady, why must you do this? By and large everyone here agrees Watson is the finest gentleman we shall probably ever know. Hasn't he survived enough? Why, why must you torture him so?"

I shrugged guiltily. "I'm bored."


	58. Crossroads

It was cold and smooth and bitterly metallic on his tongue. The sharp, acerbic smell of gunpowder and the heavy, greasy scent of gun oil were strong in his nostrils. All was set; all that remained was the catalyst. He closed his eyes.

It was said that when one was in Rome, one should do as the Romans. He lived in the company of ghosts now – parents, brother, wife, child, friend – why shouldn't he join them? Far less lonely in that world than this.

His finger rested on the trigger. Just one flicker . . . just one . . .

* * *

_I have kept the ending deliberately vague. Those who don't like character death can have Watson put the revolver down and those who do like character death can have Watson pull the trigger. _

_Personally, I just like the image of Watson suspended in indecision, doing his own tribue to Hamlet's soliloquy._


	59. The Path Chosen

Mrs. Hudson never knew what had prompted her to enter when her knocks went unanswered but she was grateful she did.

She didn't have to be a detective to know the implications of a man with his face buried in his hands, shaking with unreleased sobs, and a revolver on the table before him.

Very gently she pulled the gun away, scraping it lightly along the table; he had to be aware of what she was doing. She took it as a good sign when the doctor made no protest.

"I'll go make us some tea," Mrs. Hudson said softly.


	60. Another Prediction

I heard a deep, long gasp coming from the vicinity of the laptop but there without subsequent sounds of exhalation.

"Breathe! Breathe before you faint!" I commanded.

"Huh?" The question was accompanied by a dazed look over the edge of the screen.

"She's looking at the new posters for that wretched Ritchie project," Holmes snorted disgustedly.

"Are you sure? She doesn't look appalled," I replied. "Enraptured, more like."

And also alarmingly salacious as she grinned at me. "You have _got_ to see this! Do you have any idea how many women are going to flip out over you after this movie releases?"

"Me? Why?" Instantly I was peering at the screen with apprehension. "But that's nothing to make a fuss over," I protested, though I had a sinking feeling her assessment would prove correct.

"Don't be so modest, Watson," Holmes chuckled irritatingly in my ear, having joined me. "Modesty has no place with a logician any more than vanity. And your natural advantages with women -- "

"Enough, Holmes."

"He's got a point," added the fanfictioner thoughtfully. "Especially since it's _you_ played by _Jude Law_." Her dazed look had appeared again.

"Good grief. Breathe!"

* * *

_Thanks, rabidsamfan, for the link to (remove the spaces):_

_http:// sherlock-holmes-movie. warnerbros. com/ Watson. jpg_


	61. Mirror

"Do you remember, Holmes," Watson smiled, "the time when you asked me if I cared to try your cocaine? I turned you down then but I've since changed my mind."

"Oh, you needn't worry," he went on blithely while Holmes stared. "I procured my own. Actually, I find a ten percent solution far more stimulating than your seven percent. Would _you_ care to try it?"

Holmes took in his friend's enlarged pupils, nervous twitches, manic smile, and incessant babbling with pronounced unease and shook his head silently.

That was the last day anyone at 221B injected himself with narcotics.


	62. Experiment

The vicar was horrified and promptly resigned his post. The local police were unnerved but powerless to help. Mrs. Hudson was prostrated with grief by the telegram. Mycroft Holmes merely shook his head despairingly at the antics of his little brother and his biographer and wondered how necessary it was to relocate his bulk to Cornwall to investigate.

Meanwhile, Dr. Sterndale was stricken with guilt when the news reached him that the famous Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson had both gone irreversibly mad while investigating the similar tragedy of the Tregennis family. Nevertheless, he made his return trip to Africa.


	63. Hey Jude

Peals of laughter reverberated through the sitting room, much to Holmes's annoyance. They succumbed to soft chuckles after a little while but started up again exactly two minutes and ten seconds later. This cycle repeated itself twice before Holmes lost his patience entirely.

"Watson! What the devil is so funny?"

Guiltily Watson removed his headphones, clicked once, and slammed the laptop closed. "Nothing, nothing at all, Holmes, really. Sorry, I'll just take this upstai –"

Holmes pulled the laptop away; it was simplicity itself to search through the website histories to find the correct address. Grimly he watched the video, tensing as the seconds ticked closer to 2:10. He blinked. Then he turned to his friend with a look that was darker than fresh pitch.

Watson snickered unapologetically and reclaimed his property. "I must admit, I _have_ been tempted on occasion. I think I'm going to like this Jude fellow."

* * *

It took me all of 90 seconds to decide to write this sesquidrabble after viewing this (with the new "ending"; thanks, rabidsamfan!):

http://www. traileraddict. com/trailer/sherlock-holmes/international-trailer


	64. Prejudice

At hearing the young visitor's surname Watson's hand closed on his revolver and Holmes posture grew stiff with tension. "I don't know that I can help you," said at last.

"Oh, please!" cried the youth in an Irish brogue so thick it could've been cut with a knife. "You're me last hope, Mr. Holmes!"

The detective looked him up and down, made his silent deductions, and reluctantly consented. It might prove a useful lesson for both he and Watson. After all, it was monumentally implausible that EVERY Moriarty could be involved in nefarious deeds.

* * *

_Now 'fess up: I cannot possibly be the only Sherlockian who is quick to judge people who are misfortunate enough to have the last name Moriarty. Or Moran._


	65. Hatred

Holmes hated Charles Augustus Milverton because of sheer principle. Watson hated Milverton for a wholly other reason.

He had watched as Holmes's rare smile of pleasure, even rarer in a social setting like the ball, darkened into a glower after interacting with that master blackmailer. Watson never knew what they had said but it didn't matter. Milverton had made a new enemy.

Watson had worked long and hard to get Holmes to that ball and had spared no effort to get Holmes to enjoy himself for once. Anyone who ruined that much diligent work deserved any misfortune that befell him.

* * *

_The inspiration for this is an absolutely hilarious YouTube video called "My Victorian Lifestyle." It's set to the parody song "My West Hollywood Lifestyle" which is about as slashy as you can get (with a naughty word or two) but I'd say it's worth it for non-slashers to watch . . . if only for the image of Milverton sliding up to Holmes and saying, "Hey, Pumpkin!" _


	66. Indian Possessions

Until the day the soldier arrived, Johnny and Harry were allowed to play with the servants' children. That day, they were building sculptures out of garden mud, heedless of the hot Indian sun beating above them.

Harry, being the oldest, had kept his worn playclothes free of the mud, and so the soldier chose him to fetch some refreshment until the master of the house appeared. Bemused, Harry did nothing. Waiting upon guests was servants' work.

"Didn't you hear me, you filthy little half-caste?" the soldier snarled. He half-threw the boy across the yard.

"_I_ heard you," said Major Watson.

* * *

_Inspired by Ben Kingsley in_ Without a Clue, _who is to my knowledge the first and so far the only Watson of mixed ethnicity. That, and a line from SCARLET set this mini-series in motion. More to come._


	67. Indian Possessions II

The soldier ruined everything.

_Ayah _made them stay inside when it was bright and sunny, and _never_ let them so much as peep outside in the afternoon.

Father hugged them just as often but never again said, with fond pride, that his sons resembled their late mother. And he put away Mother's picture.

Worst of all, they could not play with the servants' children anymore.

Despite what _Ayah_ said, Johnny couldn't see how he and Harry were any different from the others. True, most of the other children were far darker than they but there were a few that had the same light eyes, the same bronze skin that burnt pink, and the same blond highlights that developed in summer.

The difference, Johnny decided, was that he and Harry had a father but no mother. The other children, those who also sunburned and turned blond, had mothers but no fathers.


	68. Indian Possessions III

In due time John was sent to boarding school in Britain proper. There, he threw himself into academic and athletic pursuits with equal fervor. He never achieved outright popularity but he earned a decent reputation with both teachers and students.

John was not the first student of mixed ethnicity to attend, nor would he be the last. The curious looks and petty slights of the first year petered out as he made friends. But the memories of them haunted him. The moment he had his M.D. in hand he set about joining the army – in a regiment bound for India.

* * *

tbc


	69. Indian Possessions IV

It was odd to be in India again. He had expected to feel at home; instead he felt unspeakably awkward. He could appreciate now, as he hadn't as a child, the privilege of having a British father who married his Indian mother. The rat catcher he passed had blue eyes in a mahogany face; that little girl in the gutter had red curls peeping from under her scarf.

On the other hand, there was the time he walked the streets of Karachi in uniform and heard one native mutter behind his back what might politely be translated as "sodding English."


	70. Indian Possessions V

"He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural tint of his skin, for his wrists are fair.' "

I snorted, interrupting him. "Hardly fair."

Holmes shrugged. "Fair enough to discern you had come from the tropics."

"Recently _and_ originally, you mean," I muttered bitterly.

"Unless it has any bearing on crime, a man's background is nothing to me. Assumptions based on bloodlines are mere prejudice, and prejudice is an anathema to the rational mind," replied Holmes severely. "Now then. He has undergone hardship and sickness . . . "


	71. Indian Possessions VI

Watson knew the officials at Scotland Yard often wondered how on earth he could tolerate being Holmes's colleague, let alone his flatmate. Admittedly, at times Watson wondered that himself. But for the most part, he was content to let Holmes have the limelight. It was because of the same reason he stood on the sidelines and scribbled case notes, why he rarely spoke when Holmes was asking the questions of clients, and why he all but absented himself in his own stories. Watson did not like to draw undue attention to himself. It was . . . easier . . . that way.


	72. Indian Possessions VII

It must be sheer cliché to an outsider, Watson reflected, a man of mixed blood striving for marriage with a pale, blue-eyed blonde. Think of the children and all that rot. But Miss Mary Morstan was no more responsible for her bloodline than he was of his. That they had both been children in India was also negligible. Of far more importance was her character, her intelligence, her sweet demeanor.

And the way his heart soared when, with his ring on her finger, she looked at him and said, simply and earnestly, "When I look at you, I am home."


	73. Defeat

Watson plopped his hat and coat on the rack, gave a tremendous sneeze, and wearily dropped into his chair. "All right, Holmes. You win. I admit to being ill and will be staying in the next few days."

Holmes permitted himself a triumphant flourish as he dropped the newspaper. "Good. It's about time Mrs. Hudson's lectures proved effective."

"Actually, it was an elderly lady who passed me on my way in just now. She looked at me, then at the red light and shingle, then nodded sympathetically and said, 'Don't you worry, dearie, the doctor will soon set you right."


	74. From a Notepad Found Under the Bed

(Sorry about the random periods. I meant this to be spaced a particular way and FF regulates spacing in a very ham-fisted way.)

Perhaps the ivory box came to Watson first. Perhaps Holmes wasn't quick enough to stop Watson's curiosity at Baker Street. In the end, it doesn't really matter how it went wrong. Watson is dying, and he has access to one of his notepads.

* * *

It hurts to die. I'd forgotten that, how much it hurts.

.

Sorry. Don't want to die. But tired of hurting. Sorry to die this way. Insulting – dr killed by germs.

.

Angry. Unfair. Angry at Smith, myself. Should've known. Sorry for hurting you w/this.

Saddened. Grieving – don't want to die. Sad for leaving you and Mary.

.

Tired.

.

**I don't blame you. Don't blame yourself. **

**.**

**.**

Tired of hurting.

.

Afraid. Afraid for you two – worried for you.

Take care of each other Please

.

Sorry. So sorry.

.

Please don't forget me. Grieve, move on

please don't forget

.

Sorry. Selfish. Just afraid of that.

.

Don't want to die but don't want to die alone. Glad you're here

.

.

Can't think. Want to say more but the words

.

.

.

Sorry

.

**Don't blame you.**

Don't want to die but not sorry for it all.

**HOLMES** Not sorry for it

.

.

Tired

hurts

.

.

.

Sor


	75. The Lamp

It was a curious relic -- a battered bronze oil lamp of some age. Watson had come across a few of them during the Afghan campaign but how this might have figured into one of Holmes's cases he couldn't imagine. But then, he seldom could see the mystery behind Holmes's souvenirs.

This lamp, though, might serve as a decorative piece – or perhaps a replacement for Holmes's tobacco should the second Turkish slipper come too close to the fire as the first one had. All it wanted was a little cleaning, covered in soot as it was.

"Don't!" cried Holmes, belatedly.


	76. Wish 1

Watching the djinn flicker like a flame in the wind reminded Watson of the stories he had heard about the creatures, that they were beings of smokeless fire so powerful they must be bound forever in servitude for the safety of the world.

"What is your first wish, Master?" it purred. "Power? Wealth? Love? Anything at all. It shall be yours."

While Watson merely gaped, Holmes offered his advice. "Wish for something small, Watson, something that won't matter. And for pity's sake, be specific!"

_Small and specific . . . _

"I wish for an English florin, genuine, dated 1877."

"Granted."

* * *

(The buying power of a florin in 1882 is roughly $25 today, U.S.)


	77. Wish 2

The florin paid off the remainder of his gambling debt but Watson did not feel much relief. It was a small and specific wish, but also a selfish one. His second wish, he vowed himself, would carry more meaning.

"I wish for five average-sized loaves of fresh wheat bread," he whispered in an alley, pulling the lamp from his pocket and rubbing the worn sides.

He supposed he could have purchased the bread but he feared that by the time he came back, the five starving little urchins would have been lost to the wildness of London's alleys and byways.


	78. Wish 2 and a half

"What would you wish for?"

The djinn looked startled. "I?"

"Is there anything _you_ desire?" Watson persisted.

The djinn smiled. "My freedom."

"Can I wish you free, then?"

The smile broadened, twisted. "I do not think you would like that."

"Why? Are you evil?"

"If I were, do you think I would tell you?"

There was something to the tone that gave Watson pause. He found himself staring into eyes that were not eyes but rather windows into a burning wasteland of nothingness, harsh black upon red that set his heart racing with terror.

So much for wish number three.


	79. Wish 3

"Master, it has been half a year. When will you make your third wish?"

"When I have something to wish for."

"What are you, that you desire nothing?" the djinn roared. "I can give you all that men long for and you refuse it!"

"I desire many things," Watson replied. "But power holds no appeal, money I can earn, and love I can find on my own."

"But there _is_ something you want," the djinn crooned, "something you cannot provide for yourself. Tell me. Wish it."

Watson held the lamp, considering. The barometer reading fell. He winced, and wished.


	80. Wish 3 continued

"Fool!" the djinn declared. "You could have wished that at the start. Why wait?"

"I had my reasons. Will you grant it or not?"

The djinn raised a hand. The doctor gasped and gripped the sides of his chair. He didn't know what he had expected but it wasn't this -- he could feel every atom, ever molecule shift. It hurt like blazes.

And then it didn't hurt at all. Wonderingly, he shifted his arm.

"My services are complete." The djinn paused. "You are a strange mortal," it said with disgust, and returend to the lamp.


	81. Genie

"Three wishes I have granted you. My service is complete."

"Wait! It's not a wish, it's a question. When I wished for you to heal my shoulder five years ago, did you know that I would be shot again by the same type of bullet?" (1)

"Yes."

"Was I shot again because of my wish?"

The djinn smiled. "No. The Maker has His patterns which I cannot alter. Are you displeased with your last wish now, having had only five years without pain?"

Watson considered. "No, it was enough."

"You are a strange mortal," the perplexed djinn declared, but with respect.

* * *

(1) Baring-Gould hypothesizes that Watson was hit by a jezail while helping Holmes on a case not long before the events of SIGN. I'm inclined to agree, since Watson says he had had a bullet pass through his leg "recently" and at least seven years had lapsed between Maiwand and SIGN – hardly recent. Also, although we get some specific details about his shoulder in STUDY, there is no mention of a leg wound. Why would he bother to mention one but not the other?


	82. Fear

Here he was, at Barlow's mercy at last. He willed his face to remain impassive though his hands were slick with sweat as they gripped the armrests of the chair. It had been a long time in coming, Holmes reflected, and he had put up a good fight but it was time to face his nemesis. What would Watson say if he heard Holmes had dashed out of the room?

If only the fiend were not so blasted _chipper _about it!

"Ready, Mr. Holmes?" smiled Dr. Barlow, holding up the dental drill.

* * *

Plot bunny spawned by reading Sir ACD's "How Watson Learned the Trick", available at sherlockian(dot)net


	83. Inconvenience

"Holmes, we shall get through this," I insisted. "Consider the advantages: you have a sense of smell the best bloodhound would envy; you are even stronger and faster than before; and think what you could do to the criminal element with mesmerism. You already keep odd hours and don't eat Mrs. Hudson's cooking. Besides, it's not as if you _must _feed on humans."

Holmes merely snarled at my platitudes. "A lucky thing, that. I should be laughed into the shadows if I tried to bite my victims with only one fang!"

"It could be worse. You could have an underbite."

* * *

_"My collection of M's is a fine one," said he. "Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and here is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and _Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross_, and, finally, here is our friend of to-night."_ - EMPTY


	84. The Autopsy

COME AT ONCE TO YARD STOP PROBLEM WITH DOCTOR.

The doctor was undoubtedly Watson; he had gone to Scotland Yard hours ago for an autopsy. Had Watson found something of interest? If so, what was the problem?

Holmes found him sitting on the floor with his back set against the morgue door, revolver drawn and face oddly set. Some officials hovered nearby. "He hasn't said a word to us," Hopkins murmured. "Maybe you'll have better luck."

"Watson?" Holmes called.

Watson looked up, wild-eyed. "Don't go in. It's not dead." Behind him, something heavy smacked the door.

"And it's not human."


	85. Block

"Watson, I've never once asked you to stop your writing."

He didn't meet my eye. "You've expressed your displeasure often enough."

"That hasn't stopped you before. But clearly _you_ do not wish to publish any more of our cases, for a reason you wish to keep from the public. Why?"

Watson sighed. "I can't write up cases any more. I've tried and I . . . just . . . _can't_."

"You've kept notes on our recent cases."

"That's different."

"How?"

"Because they're notes for recent cases!" He sighed again. "I've never been able to _really _write while we were working."

I blinked. "But those _Strand_ pieces –"

"Written during my marriage."

"The Agra treasure case – "

"Likewise."

"The Jefferson Hope case, then!"

Watson grimaced. "I _wrote_ it while recovering. It took me years to work up the nerve to publish it."

I considered. When Watson wrote up our cases, it was under circumstances when we were separated. Perhaps . . . writing was his way of recalling his happiest moments – with me and embroiled in matters of danger and intrigue.

"Well," I suggested, "until we retire, I could continue to shoulder the blame."


	86. Dust of Life

It was in a filth-filled ditch that he was cast forth from his mother's body, herself cast out to die for her shame.

He survived when she did not, turning himself into a little dung beetle of child, scuttling from light and scrounging for scraps. He was too strong to die from mere malnutrition or neglect.

He wished to spit on his infidel father's grave, but of course that was impossible. For that matter, that accursed soldier might still live. His strength came from somewhere – perhaps his father _had_ survived the second Afghan war.

But he rather hoped he hadn't.

* * *

Inspired by listening to "Bui Doi" from _Miss Saigon_

(For the record, I like to think that if Watson knew he had an illegitimate son, he'd Do The Right Thing.)


	87. Marmite

They first encountered the stuff in 1906. Holmes despised it. Watson loved it - just why, Holmes never understood, but soon Marmite became a running joke.

Watson would bring some to Sussex, Holmes would insult it, and Watson would return to London with it.

In 1919 Marmite appeared at Holmes's tea-table. Watson glanced at it and repressed a shudder.

"It was part of our daily rations," he admitted when Holmes pressed him.

That night the Marmite was solemnly buried in a Sussex garden, and was never referred to again by either gentlemen.


	88. Protection

"Holmes, enough is enough. Stop attacking LiveJournal."

The detective glowered over the edge of the laptop. "No. Do you know what one particular community there has been doing to you? 31 days of 'Watson!torture' with daily challenges issued! And today is the 131st anniversary of Maiwand. No, Watson, I cannot stop today."

"You are inconviencing thousands of innocent people who only want to share the details of their day," Watson said quietly. "It isn't like you to be so vindictive and cruel, Holmes. Such stories about me have existed for years and will continue. It isn't up to you to censure creativity."

Holmes paused, fingers still on the keyboard. "I'll think about it."

* * *

If anyone's interested, the community in question is Watsons-Woes (yes, hyphenated in the address). and yes, our story challenge has been VERY rudely interrupted. *scowls*


	89. Trial by Fire

The pain was exquisite: an unrelenting burning agony. He blinked back tears that welled up reflexively; he _would not_ show weakness before his foes. His hands balled up into fists but not even the bite of fingernails into his palms could distract him. A cold sweat broke out on his brow.

Incredulous applause erupted around him. Twenty-four Yarders had tried and failed; only Watson had been able to finish the searing Andhra curry laden with extra chilis. The accolades were sweet, Watson reflected, but would've been more enjoyable had his mouth and throat not been a fiery line of anguish.


	90. Envy

AU for post "Great Game."

* * *

_Wha -? _

_What's going on? Why can't I see? Wait. _

_The pool . . . the bomb . . . _

_Explosion. Right then, let's take inventory. Can't see . . . can't move. And . . . Sherlock! _

"John? My name is Dr. Howell. Don't worry about speaking; we're monitoring your brain waves for responses. We have you in an experimental form of life support. Your body suffered enough trauma that by rights you should be dead. "

_Experimental. Mycroft must've pulled some string; nice of him, I guess. But life support - how am I conscious? And what about Sherlock? _

"Actually, John, you _were_ dead," Sherlock's voice broke in. "I told you bodies are useless; this proves it."

_Yeah, but it's _my_ body. It's not perfect by any means but it's _mine_ and I want to know what's happened to it!_

"That's enough, Mr. Holmes. John, we were forced to perform emergency surgery. A, um, radical amputation."

_Amputation. OK, calm down. How radical? _

"There's no medical name for it yet. I suppose we could call it a corpoectomy."

_. . . corpoectomy . . . removal of corpus . . . oh my God! _

"Honestly, John," Sherlock scolded. "You're not seeing the possibilities. You're what I've always wanted to be – unencumbered by a body, a being of pure brain."


	91. Opportunity

"Hullo, Johnny. Miss me?"

John whipped around. Jim Moriarty. Here. In his office. Apparently unarmed.

And without snipers.

"Now, now," Jim chided as John snatched his revolver out of the top desk drawer. "You don't want to do that. I'm unarmed and you shouldn't even have that gun in your possession. You'll go to prison."

John cocked the revolver. "Worth it."

"You'll be violating your Hippocratic Oath – 'do no harm.' "

John stepped closer. "Actually, that's not in the Hippocratic Oath."

Jim stepped back. "You hate me. You want to see me suffer."

"Abdominal wounds are rarely fatal immediately. It takes hours, if not days, to bleed out." John aimed.

"The game will be over! You'll never see an opponent like me again!"

A shot rang out. Jim doubled over, gasping in pain as blood welled up.

"Why can't you criminals seem to remember that I'm _not bloody Sherlock Holmes_?"

* * *

_Nothing against many of the Return of Moriarty fics out there, but if John has a gun in his hand, and the opportunity, why doesn't he freakin' SHOOT instead of monologuing like Syndrome from_ The Incredibles?


	92. Trivial Concern

"I don't like him." Watson glared at the now-empty movie screen.

"Who? Moriarty?"

"My counterpart. He's a disgrace to the medical community. In the first movie, he told a patient his blood pressure of 156/80 was 'very good.' It isn't; it's pre-hypertensive."

"Perhaps the patient was hypertensive and that reading was an improvement," Holmes suggested. "Or perhaps your counterpart was taking his age into account."

"Then he incorrectly pronounced Lord Blackwood dead."

"Because Blackwood consumed a toxin that caused him to have no respiration and no pulse –"

"And no signs of trauma to the throat. Hanging always causes such trauma. That alone should have aroused his suspicions! And now –" Watson gestured to the screen, "he tried to take a man's pulse while wearing white cotton dress gloves! Does the man have no concept of medical procedure?"

Holmes suppressed a smile. "My dear fellow, given that these movies would have us believe all manner of scientific improbabilities – an electromagnetic gas-bomb in Victorian England, adrenaline that can be extracted from a living kidney using naught but a hypodermic needle, and plastic surgery more impressive than that which can be done with 21st century technology - I doubt anyone will notice."


	93. Good Advice

"And so, if you wish to be detectives," Holmes concluded, "you must remember the devil's agents are all too often of flesh and blood. No ghosts need apply." As if to emphasize his point, he nudged the bound and unmasked man with the toe of his boot.

The blond young man, his three companions, and – oddly enough – their oversized dog nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, we will, Mr. Holmes!" said he. "Is there anything else we should know?"

Holmes smiled. "Oh, yes. Pay close attention the first person you meet. He or she may prove to be the key to the mystery."


	94. November 1921

The poppies were only red fabric petals with paper leaves, attached to a wooden stems bearing the legend, "War Charity" but they each bought one. Watson threaded his through his lapel buttonhole. Holmes tucked his into his pocket.

Watson frowned. "It is Remembrance Day. I know you abhor sentiment but you might show _some_ respect to those who died in war."

"I prefer to show respect to those who live though scarred from war," Holmes replied firmly, meaningfully. "What flower shall I wear to do that?"

Watson paused, considered, then smiled faintly. "There were poppies in India and Afghanistan too."

* * *

to see one of the poppies that was part of the first British Legion Poppy Day Appeal: www dot greatwar dot co dot uk/ article/ remembrance-poppy dot htm (be sure to remove the extra spaces from around the slashes.)

Also, Happy Veteran's Day/Remembrance Day to all who served, living or deceased.


End file.
